The Last Best Chance
by Kittystitch
Summary: Chief arrives at the mansion for the first time and meets his new cell mates.
1. Chapter 1

_(Author's Note: WildClover27 has written a series of excellent "Beginnings" stories for each of the guys, depicting their arrival at the mansion and their first impressions of Garrison and their teammates. I highly recommend them. I was honored when she asked if I'd be interested in writing Chief's 'beginnings'. Although my universe differs from hers in some details, I hope I have managed to stay as true to our guys as WildClover27 does. Thanks for your assistance and input, WildClover27. Your suggestions made this a better story.)_

 _THE LAST BEST CHANCE_

 _Early July, 1942_

Chief never got any visitors in prison. The sorry excuse for a public defender they'd assigned him stopped coming long ago, telling him his last, best chance at getting out was an early parole for good behavior. That was never going to happen. The only other person who might have given half a rat's ass was Christine. But she didn't know where he was, and he wanted to keep it that way. He didn't want to face her again until he had things figured out.

That's why it was a little disturbing when two screws had singled him out in the exercise yard, cuffed him, and herded him to one of the interrogation rooms. The older guard, the one they called Grizzly, pushed him through the door and followed him in, closing it behind them.

The only other guy in the room, sitting on the far side of the table, was in an Army uniform. He stood as Grizzly shoved Chief forward. "Are the cuffs really necessary?"

"He's a quick, mean one, Lieutenant."

The tall, blond officer studied him briefly, then said to the guard, "He's probably not armed. I think I can handle him."

Of course he was armed. He was always armed. You just didn't flash it unless you were about to die. Or it could get you something.

"Take the cuffs off, please," the officer ordered.

"If you say so." Grizzly released the cuffs and backed up to stand by the door.

"Could you wait outside?"

"I don't think that's such a…."

"It's okay. I'll let you know if we need anything."

With a shrug, Grizzly left and closed the door with a thunk.

Chief rubbed at the red marks the cuffs had left on his wrists. He couldn't come up with a good reason why an Army officer would want to talk to him, so he waited.

The Lieutenant motioned toward the other chair at the table. "Have a seat."

"I'll stand."

"Okay. My name is Craig Garrison." The Lieutenant circled the table and leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest. He was all spit-and-polish — short, neat haircut, creases ironed into his spotless uniform, and shiny brass on his collars. His cap sat on the table next to an attache case. Chief let the silence hang, waiting for the rest.

"I'll get right to the point. The Army is looking for a few men with special skills to pull off a mission against the Nazis behind enemy lines. Your file indicates that you have some of those skills."

He had to be kidding. Chief couldn't think of a single thing the Army might want him for. Picking fights? Seems they'd already picked a big one of their own. Stealing? They could commandeer anything they wanted without his help. He was pretty handy with a blade, but the Army had machine guns and tanks. What'd they need a knife for? He waited for the punch line.

"If you agree to undertake the mission with us, we'll guarantee your parole."

That made his ears perk up. But there had to be a catch. "You're joshin', right?"

"No. I'm deadly serious, and Warden Barnes will verify it. But it'll be dangerous. You'd be putting your life on the line. If you survive, you'll earn your freedom. It's as simple as that."

He had to be missing something. The authorities couldn't really be thinking about letting him out of here, even in the custody of the Army. That was too good to be true. He studied the officer in front of him, looking for some sign of a lie or a joke, something hidden that he must be missing. The guy looked relaxed, at ease, like he offered precious freedom to hardened criminals every day. So Chief had to ask. "What kinda skills? What'd ya want me to do that every private in the Army can't do?"

"For one thing, this is an undercover mission. Auto theft could come in handy. And a solid knowledge of engines."

Chief shook his head and just smiled at the floor. They wanted him because he could change the oil in a Studebaker?

The Lieutenant continued. "And we need someone who can kill quickly and silently. Think you can handle that?"

Killing. He could do that. Everybody he'd ever killed had deserved it, and he figured the Nazis fit right into that category. "Yeah, I can handle that."

The Lieutenant circled back to the other side of the table and flipped open the attache case. "I also need team players. Men who can take orders without question. Your life and the lives of the other team members will depend on it."

'Cooperative' and 'obedient' sure weren't words anyone had stamped in red across the top of his file, but Chief gave it some thought as the Lieutenant watched him. The man was up-front and no-nonsense. Grizzly was one of the more ornery bulls, and he'd accepted the guy's commands almost without question. And if he was truly offering freedom in exchange for slitting some Nazi throats and heisting a few cars, he'd be willing to play along, at least for a while. Could be fun. And it'd be some place other than here.

Chief shrugged. "Sure, count me in."

"You don't want to give it some thought first? I mean it when I say it'll be dangerous. To be honest, the odds are against you making it out alive."

"Get shot in Germany or get sliced to pieces in the shower here. Everybody's gotta die someplace."

Garrison's eyes narrowed, and his mouth hardened into a thin line. But he pulled some papers and a pen from the attache case and slid them across the table to him. "Then I'll need you to read and sign this, explaining what the Army expects of you."

Taking a seat at the table, Chief picked up the pen and flipped through the pages, giving them a quick read. It really didn't matter what might be hidden in the fine print. He figured the Army didn't intend to live up to the agreement anymore than he did. But the chance at freedom was something he was willing to risk almost anything for. He scratched his name on the line at the bottom of the last page.

Late July, 1942

For a week Chief had allowed himself to dream. There were all kinds of ways he could slip free from Army guards and disappear if he were outside these walls. He might even be able to get away before he left the states. Then he and Christine could start over fresh. The possibilities were intoxicating. But after a week of not hearing another word about being released and flying to England, he'd realized it had all been some kind of sadistic hoax. He'd kicked himself for believing all that crap in the first place. As the weather turned hotter, so did his cell, and his temper. The fist fight in the mess hall had been inevitable, and had landed him back in solitary, which was even hotter.

Then the Army had shown up. A different lieutenant this time, and two MP's. They'd pulled him out of solitary, given him a duffle bag with his few personal possessions — mostly just the clothes he'd had on his back when he'd first been sent here — and loaded him, shackled and handcuffed, into the back of a military truck. The next stop had been the air field.

He'd never been on an airplane before, but he knew regular passenger planes probably weren't as loud as the military transport. It had landed over an hour ago, and his ears were still ringing. The truck they'd loaded him into the back of this time wasn't much quieter. And if possible, it was more uncomfortable. Even though he was shackled, cuffed, and chained to the hard metal bench, a couple of armed MP's sat across from him, watching him like he was a cornered rattler about to strike. Even if he'd had the opportunity, he didn't have the energy — he hadn't slept since they'd rousted him out of solitary sometime before daylight two days ago. By the angle of the moon when the plane had landed, he guessed it was close to dawn here in England. His mind and body told him it was still the middle of the night.

The older MP — the Sergeant who looked like a prizefighter who'd lost a knife fight — had been staring at him since they'd closed the doors. It was making him antsy.

Finally the guy spoke up. "Your papers here say they call you Chief. You're one of them redskins, ain't ya?"

Chief closed his eyes and leaned back, too tired to get into it with this jerk.

"I'm talking to you, injun!"

"I heard ya."

"Then you'd better answer when spoken to, boy."

The MP was right. Getting on the bad side of a screw right from the get-go was never a good idea. He might have to put up with this guy for a long time. The chains rattled as he sat up. "Yeah, half Navajo."

The MP's laugh sounded like a donkey. "So you're a breed, huh? Musta been why ya got yourself caught. What'd ya do? Steal some horses? Get drunk and all handsy with a white girl?" He slapped his partner on the arm, trying to get him in on the fun. "So which half of you's injun? Your pappy find himself some poor little pioneer girl to violate? Or did your squaw mama get herself mixed up with a pack of fur trappers?"

The other MP shifted uneasily. "Leave him be, Georgie."

"Ah, I'm just funnin' with him."

Fun, he called it. Two could play this game. "Yeah, like your mama sold herself to the sixth fleet…."

The rifle butt swung upward — he didn't dodge fast enough, and it slammed into the side of his head. The flash of pain exploded into stars…the world faded to grey, then tilted back into blurry reality. As he tried to pull himself upright on the bench again, he wondered why he let that kind of crap get to him…it never turned out well. He felt the blood trickling down the side of his face, but the chain holding his cuffs to the bench was too short to let him wipe it away.

The MP grumbled something he didn't catch, but after that, the rest of the ride passed in tense silence. He memorized their faces. He wanted to be ready if he ever ran into them again.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

By the time the truck rattled to a stop, Chief's head was pounding and his hands were going numb. He heard voices, and what sounded like iron gates squeaking open. The truck pulled slowly forward for a short distance before it stopped again, and the engine cut off. When the back doors swung open, he caught a glimpse of the faint pink glow in the eastern sky. At least he thought it was east. He'd lost all sense of time and place.

The quiet MP leaned down to release the shackles around his ankles and the chain that held him to the bench, and the prizefighter MP slapped him on the arm with the rifle barrel. "End of the line. Get up."

Flexing his fingers to try and work some feeling back into them, he reached down to pull his small duffle from under the bench and headed for the open door. The officer from the prison interrogation room — Garrison — stood on the pavement at the back of the truck, now dressed in sweat-stained fatigues with the shirt sleeves rolled up, and flanked by an armed corporal. Chief dropped his duffle to the ground and jumped down after it, the jolt setting off a spike of pain behind his eyes. Now free of the chain, he swiped at the dried blood on his cheek with his shirt sleeve.

The Lieutenant frowned at him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, peachy."

"Sergeant!"

Prizefighter leapt from the truck and saluted. "Yes, sir."

"What happened?" Garrison demanded.

"Ah, it weren't nothin', Lieutenant. He just got a little mouthy is all."

"He was shackled, cuffed and chained. Did you feel threatened?"

"Well, it's just that he was disrepectful…"

"That's enough, Sergeant. Uncuff him."

Prizefighter silently did as he was told. When Garrison held out his hand and snapped his fingers, Prizefighter pulled a pack of folded papers from inside his jacket and handed them over. They all waited while the Lieutenant flipped through the pages, signing his name several times. When he handed them back, he said, "You're going on my report, Sergeant. Expect to hear from your commanding officer. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir," Prizefighter stammered, saluting again. As he turned to climb back in the truck, he gave Chief a snarl that the Lieutenant probably didn't see. Great. Now if he ran into this guy again, he'd have an attitude AND a grudge.

As the truck pulled away, taking Prizefighter with it, the Lieutenant turned and motioned for him to follow. "Come on. Let's get that cut taken care of."

Chief finally looked up at the massive grey building in front of him. He'd been expecting a prison, but he'd never seen one like this. Someone had taken the time to decorate it with marble sculptures, fancy carved stone, hanging ivy and potted plants. It had big square turrets, but there were no search lights, no barbed wire or armed guards, except for the single corporal with a rifle.

"Mr. Clayton?"

Chief suddenly realized the Lieutenant was speaking to him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had called him by his real name. And it had never had "Mister" in front of it. He picked up his duffle and silently followed the man up the stone steps and through the massive carved wooden front doors, the corporal close behind him. Once he was inside, it was plain to see this was someone's home. Or it used to be. The smell of furniture wax and a wood fire lingered in the air. A library with comfortable furniture and shelves of books was on his left, and old paintings in gilded frames hung at intervals along the walls. The Lieutenant headed straight up the carpeted staircase in front of them, so he continued to follow, figuring they'd take him to his cell later, after all the paperwork had been sorted out.

At the end of the upstairs hall, Garrison pushed open one of the big double doors and waved him through into a large, high-ceilinged room. While the Lieutenant stopped to speak to the corporal, Chief took the opportunity to study the odd space. Old mismatched furniture, more paintings of frowning, over-dressed aristocrats, a few statues on fancy wooden stands, and a suit of armor. A couple of towels and someone's underwear hung on a line in front of the small fireplace on the left. Five Army cots occupied the corners of the room. This was a dormitory. Like the one he'd lived in at the mission school, only fancier. He didn't have good memories of trying to get along with a gang roommates.

"Welcome to your new home. That's your bunk." Garrison indicated the cot in the corner to his right.

A million questions swarmed into Chief's head at once, but there was one he needed the answer to first. "There are four other guys?"

"You're the last of the team to arrive. The others are in a training session now. You'll meet them later this afternoon."

Chief walked over to the bunk and set his duffle onto the footlocker at the end. He dropped onto the cot, giving it a bounce, and it resisted firmly, not like the sagging springs of the bunk he'd been sleeping on for the last year. The wool blanket felt thick and new, and the faint odor of bleach wafted up from the sheets. But what he found hooked to the cot rail snapped this whole fancy scene back into reality. He fingered it, verifying that it was a pair of handcuffs.

The Lieutenant answer his unasked question. "Until I can trust you won't attempt to escape, you'll be cuffed to your cot at night."

Once a prisoner, always a prisoner, he thought. At least the other four would be cuffed, too.

A soldier wearing an armband with a big, red cross on it appeared at the doorway. "You needed me, Lieutenant?"

"Take a look at that cut on his head, please, Corporal."

The soldier walked over to Chief, and placing his aid kit on the cot, he leaned over to push his hair away from the wound. Chief grabbed the guy's wrist. He didn't need to be doctored. "It ain't nothin'. I'll take care of it."

Garrison studied him for a minute, as if trying to make a decision. He finally dismissed the Corporal with a nod. "Just leave the aid kit, please."

The medic saluted and left the room.

"You'll find a toiletry kit and fresh fatigues in your footlocker. Corporal Parker will escort you to the head. Get showered and changed, then Parker will bring you down to my office so we can go over the rules." With that, the Lieutenant left, closing and locking the big oak door behind him.

Chief closed his eyes and sat quietly for a long minute, rubbing at his temples to ease the throbbing, and trying to make sense of this new, strange world. Maybe a shower would help. But one thing was for sure — this wasn't North Eastern Penitentiary, and if he could keep his shit together, he'd be free.


	2. Chapter 2

A good, hot shower in a private bathroom was a luxury he hadn't realized he'd missed. He'd found some aspirin in the aid kit and swallowed several with a handful of water scooped from the sink faucet. Then he'd stood under the hard stream of scalding water, letting it wash away the sweat and grime of the long trip. He'd scrubbed his hair, and winced when the soap stung his cut. As he'd dried off with the fresh, clean towel, he inspected the gash in the mirror over the sink. It wasn't bad, it had just bled a lot. He dabbed it dry and applied some sulfa powder, but he wasn't about to put a bandage on it. The last thing he needed was to show any sign of weakness or vulnerability to his new cell mates, or the Warden.

The Warden. Lieutenant Craig Garrison. The man was an unknown, a puzzle he'd have to study. Garrison held the power to send him back to stir or set him free, so he wasn't someone Chief wanted to cross, at least not at this early stage. He was obviously someone his subordinates obeyed and respected, and that kind of thing had to be earned. He'd been concerned enough about Chief's head wound to call in a medic. And he'd taken Chief's side against the MP, a fellow soldier. That puzzled Chief the most. This man would definitely take some study.

Back in the common room, Corporal Parker gave him time to change into the clean fatigues, then escorted him back downstairs.

What must've once been a sitting room on the first floor, down the hall from the library, had been turned into an office. Much of the original decor remained — the wood paneling, the draperies, a floor lamp, and more old portraits on every wall. Chief wondered if all of these unhappy people were from the same family. The only indication that this was an Army office were the stack of mounted maps leaning against one wall and a slate board with half erased chalk scribbles. Garrison, still dressed in fatigues, sat in the swivel chair behind an antique desk cluttered with stacks of paper. "Take a seat." He indicated the chair in front of the desk.

Chief remained standing. He'd been sitting all night. It felt good to be upright and able to move freely.

"It's a simple command, Mr. Clayton. Learn to obey them now. From here on out, they're only going to get harder."

Chief relented, easing into the chair facing his new warden. This was the man whose orders were obeyed without question. The one who held the power. And judging by the biceps that strained the rolled up shirt sleeves, it'd be wise to steer clear of a physical confrontation. He looked like he knew how to handle himself.

"Rain Clayton," Garrison pronounced, flipping through the pages of a file folder. "What do you want to be called?"

"Chief."

Garrison's brows knitted together slightly. "Isn't that a derogatory term…a slur?"

"It's what I answer to." He'd gotten used to the name he'd been called since he was first thrown into a white man's jail. It never seemed worth the effort to try to make people call him any different.

"Suit yourself. Chief it is." The Lieutenant scratched a note in the file, then slapped it closed. "Here are the ground rules. You will obey my orders and the orders of anyone else in uniform. I will not tolerate escape attempts or fights. You will keep your bunk area and belongings clean and neat and respect the bunk areas and belongings of your teammates. Meals are in the dining room across the hall. Breakfast is at 0800 and dinner is at 1900. If you're late, you don't eat. Lunch will depend on our schedule for the day. There are parts of this manor house that are locked and off limits. Don't even think about breaking in. Infractions of any of the rules will result in your immediate return to prison, and your sentence will pick back up where it left off. Any questions?"

That was pretty straightforward. But he remembered something the Lieutenant had said earlier. "What kind of training?"

"Physical fitness, weapons, parachutes, hand-to-hand combat…pretty much everything you'll need to stay alive in a war zone." Garrison leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, taking a quick puff. "Your job will be obtaining wheels and keeping mechanical things running. And stealth will be a big part of our game. That's where your talents with a knife come in. What tools will you need?"

What did the Lieutenant think he'd need to stab people? It didn't hurt to ask. "A switchblade."

"I've already ordered a supply. Anything else? A mechanic's tool box wouldn't be practical, but if there's some small all-purpose tool you think would be handy…"

But Chief hadn't gotten past the part about a SUPPLY of switchblades. This was becoming more interesting by the minute. "Nah, just the blade."

"Okay, Chief, if there's nothing else, I'll have some breakfast sent up to your quarters. Then I suggest you get some sleep before the others return this afternoon. Tomorrow we'll begin your training."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Sitting alone at the fancy table in the middle of the common room, he finished the last of the eggs and oatmeal, as he continued to study his new prison. The clock on the mantle over the fireplace read 9:30. What he really needed was to sleep for a week, but he was still too keyed up. He left his tray on the table and paced the room.

Outside the diamond-paned window, the morning was breaking across a wide, trimmed lawn. If it hadn't been for the sturdy bars, the large tree and the trellis of thick vines flanking the window might have been a possible escape route. Still, with the right equipment, bars weren't really a problem.

The three cots at the far end of the room were all neatly made. Other than the laundry hanging from the makeshift clothesline, and a whiff of pipe smoke, there wasn't much to give him a hint about his new roommates. Next to the cot to the left of the big window, a book sat on the side table. So one of these guys was a scholar. He idly picked it up and read the title. Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Sounded dull.

A deck of cards was loose on one of the other cots, as if it had been casually tossed there. He gathered them up and gave them a shuffle. They looked new but had been well used. He neatly stacked them and set them back on their owner's cot. A rumpled shirt had been tossed across the third cot, and a still-damp towel was draped over the foot rail. A recently used but emptied ashtray sat on the side table.

The other bunk on his side of the room was a mess, the blanket wadded into a lump, the pillow tossed aside. The ashtray on the side table overflowed with butts, and some piece of clothing was half hidden on the floor underneath the cot. So much for the "keep your bunk clean and neat" rule. The resident slob, Chief mused. In his experience, men with no physical discipline didn't have much in the way of mental discipline, either. This guy would be one to watch.

He ended up back at his own cot. There was one piece of business he needed to take care of while he was still alone. He was the new guy, the low man on the totem pole. He needed something to give him an advantage.

The comb that came with his toiletry kit was wood. Using the metal frame of his cot to lever against, he easily broke off the thick end piece. Snapping off the teeth half way down the comb's length, one at a time, was easier. He needed some kind of carving tool, and the suit of armor looked promising. With a quick inspection, he found a thin, hard, straight edge on the helmet and used it to shave the bare end of the comb into a point. It wasn't much, and he probably couldn't kill anybody with it, but he could do some damage. And it tucked nicely into his shirt sleeve.

Back at his cot, his duffle still sat on the footlocker. He hadn't bothered to open it since the prison guards had given it to him before he'd left. He knew it didn't hold much. If he'd had anything of value when he'd been sent to North Eastern, it'd be long gone by now. He sat down and dragged it into his lap, unbuttoned it, and pulled out the dungarees and faded cotton shirt he'd been wearing the day he was arrested. After a year closed up in the duffle, they smelled sweaty and musty. He tossed them onto the footlocker. Feeling around in the bottom of the duffle for anything else the screws might have left him, his fingers closed around the small metal disk and the attached chain. The St. Christopher's metal Christine had given him. He couldn't believe it was still there. It glinted in his hand and tugged at something in his chest. Carefully he clasped it around his neck and let it hang outside his shirt.

The aspirin had kicked in, and the pounding in his head had dulled to a vague ache. As he fingered the medallion, he took another look around the spacious room, the strange decor, the private spaces of men he didn't know yet. This, right here, right now, was his last, best chance. All he had to do was stay alive and not screw it up. He could make her proud of him again. He laid back onto the feather pillow and let the exhaustion drag him under.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Chief awoke disoriented, momentarily not sure where he was, but reality quickly snapped back into place. The light had shifted, now shining in through the big window. The clock on the mantle told him he'd slept straight through until late afternoon. At least he felt rested, and the headache was gone. When he banged on the door, the Corporal let him out and escorted him to the head. He'd asked when the other guys were going to get back, but the Corporal just shrugged and said he didn't know.

Back in the room alone, he wandered around it again, this time studying the paintings and sculptures. He wondered if they were worth anything. Probably not if they were still here instead of locked up somewhere. Trying the latch on the window, he found it unlocked, so he pulled it open and tested the strength of the bars. From the sloppy cement work, they looked to be newly installed. With a little effort, they could be easily loosened when the time was right.

A light breeze from the west carried the scent of cut grass and coming rain. The scent of wide open spaces and freedom. It had been a long time since he'd smelled anything so wonderful. As he watched the sun disappear behind the trees, he tried to imagine what this secret mission of theirs would be. He really had nothing to go on. Would they be stealing something? Or knocking off some Nazi big wig? Would German engines be any different from American engines? If they were, would he know how to fix one? He supposed he'd learn soon enough.

Leaving the window open to the cool, fragrant evening air, he settled into one of the big, fancy chairs at the table. From the box of matches sitting next to the ashtray, he pulled one out and bit into the soft wood. He might as well enjoy the quiet while he had it, so he leaned back in the chair, propped his feet on the table, and closed his eyes to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. He heard them coming before they'd even gotten to the top of the stairs, complaining about being hot, tired and hungry. When the door pushed open, Garrison was the first through, and the rest crowded in behind him, dirty and sweaty from a hard workout, with the ever-present Corporal Parker bringing up the rear.

"Gentlemen, this is your new roommate, Chief."

Chief didn't bother to stand or even take his feet off the table. He just returned their stares, checking them out just like they were checking him out.

"Chief, this is Wheeler, Goniff, Casino and Actor." The Lieutenant indicated each as he introduced them. Chief played a quick mental game of matching each to his bunk. Wheeler, the thick, bald one, obviously went with the messy cot. The tall one called Actor had already combed his hair back into place, and rolled down and buttoned his sleeves. He must be the pipe-smoking scholar. The one Garrison called Casino had to belong to the well-used deck of cards.

Only the slight, blonde guy, Goniff, smiled at him. "Hi ya, mate, welcome to the crew."

"Hey, how come he got out of that death march today?" Wheeler groused, heading straight for his cot.

"Don't worry, he'll be in the thick of it with you tomorrow," Garrison assured him.

"Yeah, 'cause I ain't workin' with no lazy bones." Wheeler snatched a towel off the floor and started back for the door. "I hear a hot shower callin' me."

"Two minutes, Wheeler," Garrison commanded.

"Whaddaya mean two minutes?"

"A two minute shower. That's all you get."

"I'll take as long as I want…"

"Corporal, time him. If he takes longer than two minutes, pull him out and lock him in the stockade."

Wheeler cackled a laugh. "The nice, quiet stockade, where I won't have to put up with these clowns. You'll probably want to keep me there a couple of days, too, so I guess I'll just have to miss out on all the fun and games for a while."

"I'll keep you there for as long as it takes to arrange your transport back to Alcatraz."

"For taking a long shower?" Wheeler exploded. "You need me, Warden. You ain't gonna send me back for using a little extra hot water."

Garrison's stare was hard and direct. "Don't test me, Wheeler. You're replaceable."

Wheeler snorted a rude noise and stomped off toward the head, Corporal Parker right behind him.

"The same goes for the rest of you. Two minute showers. Chow's in a half hour." Then Garrison left, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Two minute showers," Casino mocked, picking up the deck of cards from the middle of his bunk. "At least we'll get a little of the hot water. Okay, guys, low card goes next." He fanned out the deck and held it out to Chief. "You want in on this?"

"Nah, I'm good."

The others all drew from the deck, and Goniff flashed his two of spades around for everyone to see. Then he tossed the card into the middle of the table and turned his smile on Chief. "So where'd they pull ya outta, mate?"

"North Eastern."

"Yeah? I got a buddy there." Casino sank into one of the other chairs at the table. "Maybe ya know him. Mikey O'Brien. A big red-headed guy."

"I heard of him." Big Mick O'Brien was second in command of the gang that controlled one of the other cell blocks. If Casino ran with that crew, he'd definitely be one to stay wary of.

Casino picked up the box of matches, and after lighting his cigarette, he shoved the box into his pants pocket. "What were you in for?"

"Why? You writin' a book?"

Casino's eyes narrowed. "Nah, babe, just curious…"

From the overstuffed chair next to his cot, Actor puffed on a pipe. "Evidently we have all been chosen for our special talents. For instance, I am a dealer in fine art and serve a small group of wealthy clients…"

"He's a thief, a fence, and a con man," Goniff translated, taking the chair next to Casino. "Casino here's a safe cracker."

"And explosives expert," Casino added proudly.

"Me, I'm a cat burglar." Goniff held up and waggled the box of matches that had been in Casino's pocket. "And I do a little slight-of-hand."

"Knock it off, Limey, I told you to stop doin' that!" Casino snatched the matches back and put them in his other pocket. "You gotta watch out for Light-Fingers here. He'll steal your skivvies while you're still wearin' em, then sell 'em back to ya."

"Ah, c'mon, Casino." Goniff's grin was just short of cocky. "You're givin' Chiefy here the wrong idea 'bout me. I wouldn't do no such thing."

Casino got up and went back to lounge on his cot. "Yeah, well just make sure you hide anything shiny."

"So what's the story with the Lieutenant?" Chief ventured.

"I can tell ya one thing," Casino offered. "He may look like a boy scout, but he's got some brass balls. I got the feelin' he's not the type to just sling orders. I think he plans to be right in the thick of it with the rest of us."

"At least he seems fair," Goniff added with a shrug. "I ain't got no complaints so far. 'Cept maybe the handcuffs at night."

Actor looked up from his book. "Once we've shown him we can be trusted, I'm sure the cuffs will disappear."

"Yeah, if Wheeler don't blow it for all of us," Casino griped.

As if conjured, Wheeler marched back into the room, dripping wet, with a towel wrapped around his thick middle, and grousing at Corporal Parker about something. He went directly to his cot and started dressing in whatever rumpled clothes he could find. "So they call you Chief, huh?" he started in. "Like an Indian Chief? Looks like you already ran into the cavalry and lost. So what's your line? Bow and arrow? The rain dance?" Wheeler was enjoying himself, laughing at his own wit.

"Engines," Chief stated quietly.

"Engines? What about 'em?"

"What I'm good at. Engines. Boostin' cars."

Wheeler turned and came at him with a threatening lear. "Nah, kiddo, I'm the car guy here. That's what I do. You, Big Chief Baby Face, are my assistant. If anyone is replaceable around here, it's you."

Chief clenched his teeth, fighting the overwhelming urge to slam a fist into that fat face. The shiv was a sharp presence beneath his sleeve, but now was not the time to use it. He couldn't let himself get baited into trouble this early in the game. He took a deep breath and met Wheeler's ugly glare. "Probably ain't your call, dad."

"Yeah, well we'll just see about that," Wheeler spit, then turned and swaggered back to his bunk.

As the others took their two-minute turns at the shower and talked among themselves, Chief listened carefully. Now he had some idea of who he was dealing with. Actor was obviously European, a man of some culture, learning and vanity. But con men were cunning and slick. You never knew exactly who you were dealing with, the real deal or only what they wanted you see.

Goniff was the clown and trickster. Most of that type hid some dark secret, but they really only wanted to be liked. If you didn't cross them, they could be loyal allies.

Casino was a hotshot loud-mouth but seemed to lack Wheeler's mean streak. He'd let Goniff off easy for swiping the matches, but he probably had a quick temper, and if he was anything like his buddy, Big Mick, he was good at using his fists to get what he wanted. Like Garrison, he looked like he could handle himself.

Wheeler was mostly bark, not much bite, a bully who hid his lack of guts behind bluster. The kind that pulled you into a fight, then played victim. But cowards could be dangerous in their own way.

Just before 7 p.m., Corporal Parker swung the door open. "Mess call, lads. Let's go."

Casino rolled off of his cot. "Beautiful. Tonight's menu special — Spam. Again."

Without much enthusiasm, they all rose obediently and started out the door. Chief hung back a few paces, but Goniff fell back to walk with him. "You better not let the Warden catch you with that shank," he whispered. "That is, unless you really miss that cell back at North Eastern. Our Warden ain't the bluffin' type."

Chief quickly checked that the shiv was still tucked securely under his sleeve. It was there, the point gently chaffing his wrist.

When Chief gave him a questioning look, Goniff just shrugged innocently. "It's a gift, mate." He moved on to catch up with the others, but turned to look back over his shoulder. "I hope ya like Spam."


End file.
